


Uncertainty

by greasefirecombo



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-25
Updated: 2019-08-28
Packaged: 2020-09-26 16:21:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20392597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greasefirecombo/pseuds/greasefirecombo
Summary: What if Lavellan was a powerful dreamer?Solas meets an Inquisitor who might just be his equal in the area he prides himself on being THE expert in: weird fade knowledge.





	1. Memorial Interrupted

The bursts of power on the horizon of the Fade seared the ether, as bright as any Orlesian fireworks. 

Pride’s attention was pulled away from the echoes of the Second Blight that Memorial was projecting for him. He felt his eyebrows draw together as he considered the bright display in the distance. 

Wisdom had been watching history with him--helping him to understand by asking Memorial to show certain events from different perspectives. Now she winked away in response to his distraction. He worried his lip and twisted the base of his staff in the Fade regolith while he waited for her to return. 

Memorial let the projection of Drakon’s palace fade, until he and Pride stood alone among wandering _shemlen_ dreamers. The mortals seemed to shuffle and stumble around the Fade, unknowingly skirting the wide barrier Pride had cast around himself and Memorial. He could see glimpses of each mortal’s dream around them, like a hazy aura. One or two projected their dreams a few feet further into the Fade around them, and it saddened him to remember that these were this world’s most powerful mages.    
  
“You remember your Mother’s stories about how she used to sleep outside near the walls of  Ghilan'nain’s lands ,” Memorial began to speak out loud the memories that Pride was trying to ignore. “She said it had been worth it to risk a sore neck for the chance to be swept up in the dreams of a Goddess. You promised you would make sure her dreams were sweet if she’d only stay safe with you rather than--”   
  
“Enough,” Pride cut him off. “Do not forget why I asked you to join me here tonight.” 

The spirit shifted rapidly between the forms of Drakon, his son Kordillus, the warrior Hafter, Inquisitor Ameridan, and a strange two-headed, four-armed figure that seemed to be a composite of Neriah and Corin, who had been Grey Wardens.   
  
“And lovers,” Wisdom added out loud to his thoughts. 

Pride blinked and suddenly she was next to him again, facing Memorial.    
  
He wondered what she’d seen, and if he should go himself to investigate the strange power flashing on the horizon.    
  
“You would find it enlightening,” she encouraged. 

He wondered more pointedly if whatever it was would help him better understand the current state of this shadow-world he’d wrought--if it was more likely to help him restore what had been lost than staying with Memorial to learn the origins of Seekers, Templars, and Circles would.    
  
Wisdom sighed.    
  
“Shall we continue?” Memorial asked, in a voice that started as Ameridan’s and ended as Drakon’s.

“It is a part of this world about which you are ignorant,” Wisdom tried again. “I cannot assist someone who chooses ignorance in pursuit of a goal that is only tempered by convenient and familiar evidence.”   
  
Pride saw a faint spirit of humor that was barely bigger than a wisp drift by. “I suppose a little more time won’t hurt Memorial,” he said, and was rewarded by a tinkling laugh that seemed to expand and brighten the small spirit.  
  
Pride took a deep breath and stepped toward the lights on the horizon, imagining his leg stretching past all of the _shemlen_ dreamers and spirits he could see. His fade-step brought him inside what must have been a large projection of a forest clearing. The being at its center was still about 25 yards in front of him. Surely it was a spirit, since he knew no _shemlen_ could project a dream this far. The dense forest had kept his arrival hidden from the spirit, but his step had left him standing rather uncomfortably inside of a large and thorny bush that reached his shoulders. 

He tried to conjure his own small projection of the same forest, less one thorny bush, but found that he was still trapped.    
  
Projecting had always been as easy as breathing for him in the Fade. He tried again, more forcefully--with more intention, and this time he saw the bush wink out of existence. When he tried to step forward toward one of the large, tall pines that ringed the clearing, he felt sharp pricks scrape him. His projection collapsed and he found himself still entombed in the bush.   
  
“But wearing an expression that does not typically grace the countenances of my friends and seekers,” Wisdom added, appearing next to him.    
  
He sent a quick wave of healing energy across his form, and waited for his mind to produce an explanation that made sense.   
  
“I was making a joke,” said Wisdom, looking concerned at his lack of response--thought or spoken. “I was pointing out that your surprise made you look stupid, and that most people who seek wisdom are not stupid. It does not sound as funny when I explain it. Perhaps it was not a very good joke.”    
  
“No, it was just fine. He did look stupid. He’s not used to being confused,” another spirit said. Humor had followed them.    
  
Wisdom looked pleased with herself.    
  
Pride fade-stepped out of the bush and leaned against one of the pine trees to brush off some of the dried leaves and twigs that had clung to his arms and legs.    
  
“Humor,” he said, “please leave. I need Wisdom, not Cleverness.”    
  
“Just because I made a joke does not mean I am about to merge with Humor,” Wisdom said, offended.    
  
“You want to hear a dirty joke?” Humor asked her. 

Pride banished it back to where Memorial was waiting for them.    
  
“That was not the most temperate response,” Wisdom chided. 

Pride ignored her and looked around the projection. 

“The sky is green,” he said, more to himself than to Wisdom, “Most projections of the world beyond the Veil mask the ether with a blue sky.”

He reached toward the bush that had trapped him and broke off a small branch. Holding it in his fist, he fade-stepped back to Memorial and Humor. The smaller spirit looked thrilled at Pride’s arrival. 

Ignoring both spirits, Pride opened his fist and looked down into his palm expecting to see nothing--or perhaps a bit of Fade regolith. Instead, he saw the twig.    
  
“I knew you’d want to hear it after all,” Humor said. “You know how in the common tongue, ‘urge’ rhymes with ‘merge’?”    
  
Pride fade-stepped back to Wisdom, carefully visualizing his foot landing behind a pine tree and safely away from the thorny bush. 

“It is not just projecting,” he said. “It is actually shaping the Fade.”    
  
Wisdom nodded. 

Pride peered around the tree at the spirit, which was borrowing the form of a small elf to shape some kind of gigantic glass structure in the middle of the field.    
  
“Is it remembering the work one of the People did? Not just projecting the memory, but somehow channeling the power to recreate the work here?” Pride wondered out loud.    
  
Wisdom shook her head, but Pride had already made up his mind and stepped into the clearing to question the being.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first work, so I'm eager for and open to any feedback you're willing to share!
> 
> I have this story fully-outlined and a plan to post new chapters every other week. 
> 
> If there are particular characters or missions you want me to make sure to include, let me know and I'll try to make it happen!
> 
> I would like to note that, with the exception of Humor's dialogue, this chapter is written in more formal language than most of the story will use; I made this choice because I feel like Solas speaks very formally, and this chapter is from his perspective--also, he and the spirits are speaking to one another in Elven. Starting with the next chapter, most of the story will be from Lavellan's perspective.


	2. Rain Chain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I do some world-building and try to figure out a way to avoid using Lavellan's first name in this story!

It was second nature to stretch the Fade around her until she was removed from sleeping dreamers. Grass sprouted in a large clearing and forest sprung up around it. It was a lot of space to work. 

In other dreams, on other nights, she'd built museums, gardens, houses, and waterfalls. She'd once built a jungle after hearing stories of the Fog Warriors, and she'd once spent a month building tunnels to create a city like what she imagined Orzammar to be. 

On nights like tonight, when she felt so full of some emotion that she could burst, she didn't think about what she would make--she just started letting the Fade's magic pour through her like water. And with that comparison, while her body channeled the Fade's magic, her mind wandered into a memory. 

* * *

The clan had only stayed near Kirkwall for a few days. After what had happened to the Keeper and First of Clan Sabrae on Sundermount, no Dalish clans lingered there for any longer than they needed to. 

The keeper had sent Lavellan to inform the viscount that they had made camp and would be leaving in less than a week. Kirkwall had been one of the largest cities she’d ever been in. She had known enough about the conflict between mages and Templars that had started there to use a glamour spell on her staff. It would have looked like she was carrying a longbow, and she'd hoped no one would look closely enough to realize that she wasn’t carrying an accompanying quiver. 

In the city, she'd been proud of herself for not gawking at the strange sights and people. She had stopped when it had started to rain and ducked under an awning with other pedestrians before she realized that they were just trying to avoid getting wet--not trying to avoid the rubble of another explosion like the one that had broken the city. She'd been embarrassed for following the crowd like a herd animal--embarrassed that completely normal thunder had sounded like an explosion to her in that strange setting--embarrassed about almost casting a barrier in fear. 

She'd been prepared to step back out into the now-empty street when she'd seen the rain chain. A chain connecting ten small copper cups, hammered to look like flowers, had hung down from the corner of the wooden awning to swing just above the street. The rain falling on the awning had all spilled neatly down the chain in pretty streams, emptying into the gutter that ran along the Kirkwall streets. 

Lavellan hadn’t gawked at the qunari with a painted chest and silver-tipped horns, or the tables and tables of complicated braids of different-colored breads. She hadn’t gawked at the beggars who had been stepped over and ignored by people in Chantry robes, or the many unmarked faces of the city elves. 

But she'd gawked stupidly at the rain chain until she and the others had been shouted at by the owner of the awning (and the shop behind it) to clear out if they weren’t going to come in and buy anything. 

The device had seemed like such a perfect way for her to explain how magic felt in the Fade that she'd entered the shop and traded her knife and amulet for it to a confused shopkeeper who was not particularly good at pretending the rain chain had been for sale all along. 

Lavellan had then rushed through the rain-emptied streets to meet with a person she'd thought would be a Viscount, but who'd ended up being a very rude seneschal. Apparently Kirkwall’s nobility still hadn’t decided on a new Viscount.

After the quick meeting, she'd ducked into an alley to cast a haste spell on herself and had hoped the rain and the empty streets and downcast faces it resulted in would keep people from noticing how quickly she moved. She'd been so excited to talk with Keeper Deshanna--to finally explain what she’d been trying to describe for years. 

In the beginning, she'd been so proud of her presentation.

“Right now, when I cast, it’s like a reservoir of magic within me is emptied and my body--my mind twists the magic to the purpose I want to achieve.” She had stood on the lowered gate of Deshanna’s aravel and held the rain chain up as high as she could above her head, so that the bottom of the chain swung just over the ground like it had in Kirkwall. With other other hand, she had used her waterskin to pour water over the chain.

Deshanna had just blinked at her as the last of the water trickled down the chain. 

Lavellan had been undaunted, used to her attempts to engage the Keeper in discussions of magical theory being met with less enthusiasm than she always brought. “Eventually I run out. And then I can go get more water--remember, the water is supposed to be magic--by going to fill it up in the stream...I guess that could be lyrium. Or just holding it open in the rain and letting it fill up on its own--like our mana does eventually, just from the environment and from what we can pull through the Veil.” She'd started to realize she sounded manic, and she'd fought the urge to speed up her words even more.

“Yes, _da’len_. This is a very...creative way of explaining mana.” Keeper Deshanna’s tone had made it clear that she was hoping to move on and start the day’s practice and lessons. "The amulet you traded--"

“But when it rains,” Lavellan had continued, “the reservoir is unnecessary--the chain can weave the water into streams and music from the rain alone. There’s no emptying--no limit. You don’t run out of mana.” 

“And the mana is the rain…?” 

“No! I mean...the mana is the magic we’ve collected within ourselves--right?” She had continued without waiting for the Keeper to nod. “But in the Fade, I don’t need to use that reservoir--I don’t think I’ve ever even tried, because it’s like it’s raining--there’s so much ambient magic that I can just be a vessel.” Lavellan had shaken the chain for emphasis. “The magic I can do is only limited by my capacity to channel it--not by my capacity to store it.”

Levellan had deflated when she’d noticed the Keeper nodding to her like she’d nod at a child telling her about a dream he’d had in which the halla had talked to him.

“All of this is just to say that if we could somehow cut a...a rift into the Veil when we’re casting--not big enough to let a demon through, and I think there are wards we can use--” 

“Stop,” Deshanna had ended Lavellan’s rambling. “Your clan is proud to have a dreamer as our First. You are a powerful mage, and you’ll protect your people well. We’ve had this argument before and I won’t have it again. It’s not the _way_ you explain what you want. It’s _what you want to do_ that’s the problem.”

Lavellan must have looked as crushed as she’d felt. 

“_Da’len_,” the Keeper had continued more gently. “As Keeper, one of your two most sacred responsibilities will be to _keep_ the traditions of the People. It is not our purpose or place to invent new magic--new magic that could risk the safety of the clan, and draw the ire of the Templars.” 

“You and I both know that in the days of Arlathan, the People had magic that we can’t even imagine now,” Lavellan had tried, softly. “Maybe it’s not inventing something new, but recovering something ancient--” 

“Think of where we are. Think of what happened to the last Keeper and First who played on Sundermount with magic they should have left alone. Do you not feel like what we have offered you is enough, _Lavellan_?” Deshanna had emphasized the clan name that Lavellan had been called since she’d been adopted into the clan as a young girl. 

Lavellan had felt hurt that the Keeper would use that tactic to make a point, but she’d tried not to bristle. She’d been the only adopted First in Clan Lavellan's memory, and there had been some anxiety that she wouldn’t feel as close of a connection to this clan as the one she’d been born into. The clan elders and Keeper Deshanna had decided to call her by her clan name to emphasize her new role and to help her learn her connection to her new community. The habit had never been dropped, and Lavellan couldn’t recall a time when her actual first name felt like hers. 

Lavellan had always been careful to limit questions about and references to her birth-family and their clan. She usually felt grateful to Clan Lavellan--not every extra Dalish mage could find a new home in another clan. 

“_Ir abalas_, Keeper,” Lavellan had said. 

* * *

The memory was sharper and more real in the Fade. She had just thought of the rain chain in passing as she’d felt the ambient magic of the Fade coursing through her, and now the wounds of an old argument were opened on top of the wounds already bleeding from that evening’s. 

Just a few hours ago she’d been so proud to show Deshenna the carrots, potatoes, and onions she’d planted the last time the clan had passed near Wycome. They camped here for a few weeks in the summer and then again in the winter every year. It seemed like every other winter there were children in the clan that were uncomfortably thin with bellies swollen from hunger. 

This past summer, she'd gotten some ideas from a _shemlen_ apostate farmer who'd happily traded some seeds and spells for an August Ram that had wandered over one of the fire mines she'd been practicing.

She didn’t know why she still expected affirmation or pride from Deshenna, but she did. Maybe because Deshenna was the closest thing she had to a parent, she thought now, trying to consider the idea objectively so that the familiar sting of it wouldn't drag her mood to even darker places. 

She'd pestered Deshenna all day while they set up camp, and finally brought the Keeper to the spot she’d hidden months ago with a glamour spell that made it seem like a patch of bog. She’d dispelled the magic and pulled out a large, ripe carrot. 

“I used a delayed stasis spell that took effect as soon as they became ripe! Oh, and barriers that grew with the roots to keep them from rot and any animals that might want to steal from our little garden.” She had grinned at the Keeper, and started digging more carrots out of the ground. She'd been eager to get them back to the camp. There were too many children this winter who couldn’t afford to skip too many more meals. 

“Stop,” Deshenna had finally said. “We do not have _gardens_. We are Dalish. Do not do this again, _da’len_. Come, we need to get back to camp.” 

Lavellan had gotten up, clutching the dirty carrots she’d been so proud of and excited about. 

“Leave them.” 

“Keeper,” she’d replied, finally understanding what Deshenna had decided. 

“It is Fen’Harel who tempts us away from the traditions that have allowed us to survive and stay free. Of course the temptations he offers are sweet. Drop them and come.” 

Lavellan had been so furious she’d gone straight to Mahanon, the elf in charge of gathering wild plants and herbs, and made up some story about stumbling into a patch of wild carrots and other roots. She had given him directions and then gone to her small aravel and cast a sleep spell on herself so that she could retreat into the Fade. 

_Let the Keeper pull the carrots out of children’s mouths and explain to their parents that they were wicked temptations from Fen’Harel_, she thought bitterly, continuing to channel magic without thinking about what she was creating. 

She knew this couldn’t go on. More and more, she’d caught Deshenna looking at her as if she were a problem to be solved, or, worse, a threat to the People. 

She understood how some of her ideas were probably misguided, and she knew she had a tendency to introduce some of her ideas poorly (the morning she'd surprised the clan by enchanting the aravels to roll on their own and offended the elves who took care of the halla was definitely not her finest moment). But if a keeper was supposed to keep the traditions _and_ keep her clan safe, healthy, and happy...was it really so bad that Levellan would prioritize the clan over their traditions when the two came into conflict? Were ideas that were a threat to tradition necessarily a threat to the People?

She stopped channeling and wiped some tears out of her eyes angrily. With her eyes clear and her body not channeling the magic around her, she looked at what she’d been doing. 

She’d blasted the ether and regolith with magic until she’d twisted it into a finely-wrought stained-glass carrot that was almost half the size of Sundermount. It looked absolutely ridiculous, and very, _very_ orange.

She started laughing, and didn’t stop until she heard someone clear his throat behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor, nerdy Lavellan just needs someone else to get excited about magic and the Fade...


	3. Wake Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lavellan and Solas have a confusing encounter in the Fade.

Had she forgotten to put up a barrier? Normally she didn’t have to think about it when she entered the Fade. She reached out with her magic to check--yes, there it was. Only conscious dreamers and friendly spirits could enter, although the list of banned spirits was always a work in progress since it grew every time some vice she hadn't thought of sneaked in. 

He was either a spirit or a conscious dreamer who’d managed to stay hidden from the rest of them. If he was a new dreamer, she’d have to let Feynriel, Mina, and the others know at their next meeting.  
  
The spirit or dreamer stood considering her from about ten yards away. He appeared in the form of a tall elf. He was definitely larger than any elf in her clan, but that didn’t mean much in the Fade, where people’s forms were shaped by their own images of themselves. Lavellan’s eyes glanced over the dark, intricate braids that drew together at the back of his head before falling over his broad shoulders and down his back. His clothes were woven of deeply-dyed, rich fabrics that she didn’t recognize. A plush wolf pelt was slung over his shoulder and tucked into an ornate belt. If he was a dreamer, he certainly had a high opinion of himself. Lavellan felt a flash of embarrassment when she looked down at the same rumpled tunic and soft leather leggings she knew her body wore, asleep in in the waking world. 

_It would be more embarrassing to have him see me change how I look now_, she decided. She shook her head quickly and refocused on the man or spirit who had interrupted her dreams.

He didn’t really feel quite like either, though. She squinted and let her eyes unfocus in an attempt to see his magic. Like a spirit, his magic looked the same as the magic that made up the ether of the Fade. Like a dreamer, though, he had edges--a border where he began and the Fade ended. 

“What are you, and who was she?” the man asked her in Ancient Elven. 

One of the first things she and Feynriel taught any young _somniari_ was a language acquisition spell. The group of conscious dreamers they’d informally led since the death of Aurelian wouldn’t be able to exist without it. 

She felt the spell working in response to his question, and her thoughts shifted into Ancient Elven. She couldn’t keep a grin from spreading across her face at the novelty. This made getting to think and speak in Tevene and Qunlat seem boring in comparison. She wished it worked in the waking world on the other side of the Veil--maybe Keeper Deshenna would see the value of nontraditional magic if it helped to restore the language the People had almost completely lost. 

“What are you, and who was she?” the man asked again, more impatiently. 

“It’s not very polite to ask people _ what _they are,” she replied. 

“What manner of spirit are you that you can manipulate the Fade like this?” He gestured at the giant glass carrot behind her. 

“I’m not a spirit,” she said, annoyed that he would suggest that creating something as rudimentary and stupid as a giant carrot was beyond any mortal's abilities. “And to be honest, that's just the unintentional result of a bit of a tantrum.”  
  
“What exactly is it supposed to be?” he asked. 

She was growing increasingly frustrated with the condescending way he kept tossing questions at her while ignoring her answers. Maybe he was some sort of particularly-embodied spirit of condescension. She’d never encountered one before, and didn’t think her barrier was set to keep them out. After tonight, they’d be added to the list.

She slouched as she realized she didn't need to keep trying to be polite--she had no need to make friends with a rude spirit. Her mind started to drift back to the argument she'd had with her Keeper.

"What is it supposed to be," the spirit demanded, not even bothering to inflect it as a question this time.

“Can’t you tell? It’s a monument to Fen’Harel,” she said, rolling her eyes and starting to pull magic into herself so that she could banish him. She was worried he might take a little more effort than a typical spirit, and didn’t want a failed banishment to give him the chance to retaliate. 

He looked at her sharply when she said the Dread Wolf’s name.

“How is that a monument to Fen’Harel?” he asked, looking genuinely baffled and a little insulted. 

Maybe he was a spirit of critique? Did those exist? She’d given up on trying to keep track of all of the emotions echoed by and distilled into spirits in the Fade. She'd even met a spirit of the-relief-and-pleasant-surprise-one-experiences-when-finding-something-long-assumed-lost-forever a few years ago. 

Right before she released the magic she'd been shaping, she decided she was just curious enough about his nature to waste a few more minutes with him. She redirected the magic she’d planned to banish him with, using it to raise a wide circle of large stone Dread Wolf statues around him instead. Each wolf statue held a real carrot in its mouth, which she hoped would put an end to his condescension. Turning the raw materials of the Fade into actual organic matter that your spirit could consume was a tricky bit of dream-magic that had taken her a long time to figure out. Even the snootiest of spirits would have to be just a little impressed.

“Fen’Harel and his sweet temptations,” she said.   
  
She felt a flash of regret about the way she’d ended her day. She usually used this type of dream magic to host dreams of feasts and favorite meals for the clan’s children (and any adults who weren’t too shy to ask) when food was scarce. It wouldn’t physically sustain them, of course, but it gave them some relief from hunger pangs that could last for weeks. She hoped Mahanon had found the little garden she’d made, and she hoped the Keeper hadn’t turned the food away a second time.  
  
“A spirit of...construction?” the man said hesitantly, quickly stepping closer to her and out from the circle of statues as if it made him itch to be near them.  
  
“Is that what you think you are?” she asked back. “That’s not even a feeling.” 

He huffed. “You’ve made it very clear that you already know who I am. Now I would have you answer _my_ questions.” 

She nodded. “So you _are_ a spirit of condescension.” He must be a spirit if he’d read her earlier thoughts. 

His face struggled between looking insulted and looking confused, and he seemed to shrink a couple of inches. A spirit of wisdom Lavellan hadn’t met before drifted toward them wearing a wry smile and the form of a human woman. He spun toward it. 

“Is this some joke? Did you bring me to meet a spirit of mockery--” 

“Also not really an emotion,” she replied. “Although I guess Wisdom here is a good reminder that spirits can mirror traits as well as emotions. But still, construction? Mockery? Those don’t fit either category. Terrible guesses!” 

His ears and cheeks turned a little red. 

It made her doubt herself again. She wondered if that the shift in his affect from haughty and condescending to embarrassed and confused indicated that he might not be a spirit after all. 

“Look, are you a dreamer?” she asked, careful to use a calm, coaxing tone. 

“Obviously,” he spat back, his pride clearly still hurt.

She fought the urge to roll her eyes again. “Why don’t you tell me what you think is going on.” 

“You are clearly a particularly strong spirit of...possibility, or maybe creativity. You have felt the echoes of a woman who was some kind of very powerful artist or architect in the days of Elvhenan. You wear her form and recreate some of her works here…” he trailed off and looked at the carrot again, and then turned around to look at the ring of Dread Wolf statues. “Or at least attempt to create your own bizarre monuments to the Evanuris, like she must have done more skillfully, thousands of years ago.”

Lavellan waited a minute to see if he would realize how ridiculous he sounded. When he continued to stare at her, she looked at Wisdom, who sort of shrugged and raised her eyebrows. 

“You are clearly a powerful mage, and a very intelligent man,” she started, choosing words she guessed he believed in an attempt to be diplomatic and soften what she would say next. 

It seemed to work, because he nodded his head once toward her in acknowledgment and regained one of the inches he’d lost. 

“Does the explanation you just shared _really_ seem more likely than the possibility that I’m a dreamer?” she asked. 

His brows drew together, and she assumed he was thinking of a way to apologize and introduce himself properly.

“Maybe you’ve put so much effort into embodying her that you’ve forgotten you’re a spirit,” he said finally. 

Lavellan threw her head back in exaggerated disbelief. 

“Haven’t you ever met another dreamer?” she asked.

“Friend,” he said sympathetically, clearly still assuming he was talking to a delusional spirit, “I’m so sorry to have to tell you that the mages of the present day are not powerful enough to dream like they did thousands of years ago. You are but an echo of what has been lost.”

“Look, you mentioned a spirit of possibility--you think I’m one of them, right?” 

He nodded with a small, wistful smile on his face. "Perhaps." 

“I know about five spirits of possibility. We might have a friend in common here--you can summon one you know well and maybe it can vouch that I’m a modern dreamer, despite it being _totally impossible,_ apparently...” She looked pointedly at him, waiting for some indication that he recognized the contradiction between his own claim of being a modern dreamer and his follow-up claim that they couldn’t exist. 

“Humor will want to know this,” Wisdom said before blinking away. 

“How would they have suffered her to live, though, a dreamer with this much channeling power? Unless June kept her hidden from the others? Or the spirit could be attributing more strength to her than she actually had...” he mused to himself, staring at Lavellan like she wasn’t really there and making her regret not changing her appearance earlier. 

“I think this is projection,” she interrupted him. 

“No,” he said, eager to correct her and assuming she was finally ready to fall into his line of thinking, “I thought that myself at first, but I took a piece of that bush over there to a totally different part of the Fade, and it maintained its form and substance! It’s not a projection. You’re truly changing the substance of the Fade.”

“I know that,” she said in a voice that was almost a yell. “I meant that you’re projecting these ideas about my nature onto _me_ when they actually describe whatever is going on _over here_.” She gestured vaguely toward him. “You’re speaking a dead language. Your magic looks weird. You're not Dalish, but you recognized my vallaslin as June's. You’re not very good at listening to people or changing your mind, and spirits are pretty famously unwavering...” 

“You know perfectly well that I am not a spirit,” he replied huffily. 

Lavellan smirked at him. “I don’t know. In fact, I'm starting to think you’re a spirit of certainty, because ‘certainty’ sounds kinder than ‘willful ignorance.’ Nothing I’ve said has changed your mind and you’ve been wrong about pretty much everything. I guess I’ll know for sure if you _ wake up._” 

She got one quick glimpse of his shocked and insulted expression before he disappeared, returned to his body in the waking world beyond the Veil. 

Waking someone by sending a quick jolt through a Fade form to the waking body it’s tethered to was something she used to do with Mina and Feynriel when they were young. It was rude and annoying--akin to poking or pinching. Now she only really used the trick to wake children she saw having nightmares in the Fade. 

“I guess he was a dreamer after all,” she said to Wisdom, who’d returned with a smaller, smiling spirit that wasn’t attempting to take a mortal form. “Would either of you be able to find one of my Possibilities? I need someone to help me figure out whatever that was."


End file.
